Swan Song
by Oaktown fangirl
Summary: Astrid tries to rebuild her life one piece at a time, but faces challenges as she finds her way. Set following the events of the series finale, and contains spoilers related to it. Disclaimer: no copyright infringement intended.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: This is part one of a planned two-part story. I'm sad about the show's cancellation—it inspired the title. I hope part two will follow soon._

* * *

Today was one of those days. Astrid had good days; she had bad ones; and she had ones like today when she would be too busy to appreciate the former, or wallow in the latter. She was taking advantage of the lull between the morning coffee lines, and the invariable lunch rush, to clean, organize, and restock the counter, as she'd done so many times of late.

There were so many reasons why one would want to take a gap year. Astrid was sure that being witness to a plot eradicate humankind didn't make the top hundred. She was equally sure that it was one that she would never tell another human, lest she find herself dosed with antipsychotic meds, and locked up for her own good. The reason would be hers alone to know, but the result spoke for itself. She was finding herself again. Each day, a little at a time, she was finding her way, finding her footing in the world once more—in the world that continued on in spite of all that happened.

She had long since established that Stephen would always be a part of her life. He was her dearest friend … her trusted confidante … he was family really. But now, she saw little of him. It was not that his friendship meant any less to her. It was that the Tomorrow People—his people—needed him more than ever. He had assumed the mantle of leadership. He was their chosen one, and it seemed odd to her when she was around him to watch the way the newly assembled Tomorrow People held him in such elevated status. His responsibility to them was great. And for Astrid, being around them, Stephen, Russell, and especially Cara, was a bitter reminder. Drifting apart was more of an evolution, than a rift. Sometimes it made her sad; other times, she was grateful for the distance.

Astrid was rebuilding her life one piece at a time. Working in the café had been the foundation. She loved working with her father, and now that she knew the daily rhythm of the work, she liked being able to free her father to do other things. It felt good to give him an opportunity pursue other interests, or focus on other aspects of the business, or even to take a few days away, as he was doing now. She loved being useful again. She went into the kitchen and returned with a tray of the day's sandwich special, carefully slotting it into the counter.

While she was happy to help in the café, it was music that gave her the most joy; it was music that served as a balm to the raw places in her heart. She had given herself over to it with her whole self. She was taking voice lessons twice a week; she resumed studying piano. She even attended an actors' workshop to sharpen her performance skills. It was only when she was singing and practicing music that she could completely turn the page on the script that ran through her mind.

In truth, she owed much to Philippe, her voice coach. Over the course of the months that she'd been working with him, he'd become a major influence in her life. Her father said, "fifty percent of your sentences begin with 'Philippe says …'" And it was true. Philippe was more than a voice coach; he was her life coach.

When he decided his calling was to "train the next generation of singers," he had changed his name from Philip to Philippe, because "people love the exotic," he told her. He was an old soul, but he was, in point of fact, only a thirty-something, figuring out how to capitalize on his music degree, now that his own dreams of stardom were diminishing. He told her all of this over coffee at their "interview" before he agreed to take her on as a student. He had his own vibe—funky and hip, but clearly cultivated to be so. And Astrid allowed his vibe to wash over her and carry her along at a time when she desperately needed something to ground her.

All pretentions aside, Philippe turned out to be a wonderful coach. "You can't just sing what you like, Astrid," he told her early on in her lessons. "You'll never grow artistically if you do." He'd select the songs and they'd work on them together—Philippe on piano, Astrid singing. The Beatles songbook, Gershwin, jazz standards, classic rock ballads … he made her try them all. "The key is not to try to sound like someone else," he told her. "Let's face it, you'll never be Lady Day. The thing is, to make it your own … to pour yourself into the music … to infuse the music with your heart and soul." It was these kinds of grandiose pronouncements that endeared him to Astrid.

Philippe felt that Astrid gravitated naturally to songs of great poignancy and sadness, and pushed her to balance things out with a few up-tempo numbers. After a few months of working together, Astrid had a few songs in her repertoire that Philippe declared to be "better than acceptable, almost good." She took it in stride, because she knew it was his way of challenging her to be better.

About this time, Philippe had encouraged her to take the next step. He had introduced her to Elle, an aspiring guitarist, and suggested they team up and do some open mic nights. "Nothing elaborate, just two or three songs," he told her. At first, Astrid had been reticent about it. She was used to piano accompaniment, and it was most appropriate for so many of the songs she knew. But Philippe had pushed back, "you're not ready for Carnegie Hall yet, missy. And there are no baby grand pianos at open mic night. We'll find something that will work with guitar… you'll be fabulous! You'll see."

So with Elle accompanying her on guitar, Astrid had done a series of open mic nights, and looked forward to the one she had scheduled that night. Her parents were always there at first. A couple of times, she'd invited Stephen. He even showed up once, and brought Cara with him. And Philippe was in attendance when he had time, though he had "other rising stars to support too." Now, they approached it more professionally, and didn't pack the venue with friends and family. They just showed up and took it as it came. Sometimes good, other times not so much.

Her father allowed her to leave a small stack of postcards on the counter announcing the open mic night, at a club across town where she would be performing that evening. Across the corner of each one, she'd hand-written, "featuring Astrid Finch." Astrid nervously tidied them, before heading to the kitchen to retrieve the daily salad special. When she returned, she bent low on one knee and carefully slotted the tray into the glass case.

"Can I get some service please?"

She knew at once. Though her mind denied it, her body could not. It was like a jolt went through her. "John?" She stood up, and found her legs shaky.

"Lucky guess? Or have we met?"

It was him all right, but different … changed. He was clean-shaven, and his hair had been neatly cut and styled. She had never seen him in a suit before, but he wore one now—a sleek, dark gray number, with a blue shirt and coordinated gray tie. For an instant she thought how the blue shirt accented his eyes. But it was his eyes that had changed the most. The rest was superficial, but his eyes were blank and looked right through her.

"It's me, Astrid." She smiled, and felt her brow furrow of its own accord. Her face was expectant, and full of hope. But it was just as Stephen had warned her it would be if ever she should meet him—the John she knew was gone.

"Well, _Astrid_, I'd like a large coffee to go … please," he added.

She wanted to touch him, to caress his cheek … she wanted to make him remember her, in whatever way she could. Instead, she went to pour the coffee, grateful for a moment away from those eyes, to gather herself. She willed the tears that pricked the corners of her eyes to stay put. She mechanically filled a large paper cup, covered it with a lid, and slipped a corrugated cardboard holder around it.

How many times had she imagined this very scenario? And now here he was, and her composure failed her. She had imagined running from behind the counter, drawing him into a passionate kiss. And when at last he opened his eyes, he would say, "Astrid." But he would say it with conviction and with full knowledge of who she was, with full memory of what they shared. But that was a romantic fantasy, and their lives were anything but. So instead, she put the coffee on the counter in front of him, and started in a tremulous voice, "John?"

He put a five-dollar bill on the counter in front of her. She eyed it for a moment. Then took it up and turned to the cash register. When she turned back with his change, he was gone. "Coward," she said aloud, throwing his change into the tip jar with emphasis.

* * *

She felt haunted for the rest of the day—both by memories of John, and by her own inaction. She was totally off her game. She got orders wrong, spilled drinks, and could only imagine how far off the till would be at the end of the day. When things settled down, she got Tony, their chef, to cover the counter while she took a break. She went to the small room at the back of the café that served as storage, and break room, all rolled into one. She sat on a low bench, buried her face in her hands, and cried.

When she had spent the tears and frustration, she took out her phone and called Philippe.

"I can't perform tonight," she said holding back a fresh torrent of tears.

"Astrid, honey, are you sick?" his asked, concerned.

"No," she responded. "It's just the day I've had …" she sniffed back tears. "I can't," her voice was plaintive, pitiful.

"Tell me."

She sighed, and began, "There's this guy …"

"A guy? Really?"

"Not _a_ guy, _the_ guy. Only I never had the chance to tell him … well, it's complicated."

"It always is," he said flatly. He sighed deeply. "Meanwhile," he said, "you're on the list for tonight. You need to be there."

"Philippe, it's open mic, not exactly a command performance for the president."

"Astrid, you're training to be a professional singer—a _professional_ singer. You can't just be a no-show because you've had a bad day, or because you ran into some guy who broke your heart …"

"It wasn't like that," she started.

He cut her off, "Well however it was is irrelevant. You said you'd be there. And what about Elle? She's counting on you too."

_Ugh_, she hated it but she knew he was right, "I'll be there." She resigned herself to doing the right thing.

At the end of the day, Astrid closed the café, and went home to shower, change her clothes, and put on stage-appropriate make-up. She unbraided her hair and shook loose her curls. She pulled outfit after outfit out of her closet, then rejected one after another. Until at last, she decided to dress to her mood, and went with a classic black dress, with high-heeled black boots. She broke up the black with a sparkly necklace of jewel-tone beads that she borrowed from her mother's jewelry collection. On the way out the door, she grabbed her jean jacket and bright red bag that held her essentials. Then she headed back to the subway to meet Elle at the club.

In spite of the day she'd had Astrid found herself looking forward both to seeing the other acts, and to performing herself. She arrived early enough to check in with the manager, find out when she and Elle were scheduled to perform, and then get a table near the stage. The place was a club/café/dinner theater depending on the day or week or month, or so it seemed to Astrid. It was a constantly changing venue, but it was the kind of funky place that hosted open mic nights, and the folks who ran it were generous and genuinely nice. They loved supporting up and coming performers of all varieties.

A short time later, Elle joined her after stashing her guitar on a corner of the stage. Together they watched the two acts that preceded them. The first was a duo that was channeling their inner Black Keys. They performed two covers and two original works. And even though they struck Astrid as a bit derivative, she admired them for putting themselves and their music out there. A spoken-word performer followed them. She was tiny, but took command of the stage. Astrid thought her final piece—a manifesto about women's empowerment—went on a little too long, but she joined others in giving her sincere applause.

Then, it was their turn. No matter how many times she performed, Astrid always felt a wave of nerves before she took the stage. When she told Philippe, he responded in typical Philippe fashion, "Nerves are good, nerves are healthy, nerves are normal, but when it's time to sing, you let your voice vanquish your nerves." She intended to do just that—and not just her nerves—she intended to let her voice exorcise the sadness that haunted her that day.

While Elle took out her guitar, adjusted the strap, and tuned up, Astrid went through the mental exercises Philippe had taught her. In her childhood fantasy of being a singer, Astrid always imagined herself in a concert hall, with full command of the audience, everyone paying rapt attention. But reality was totally different. In reality, you started at venues like this where some people were there for the music, some to have a drink and hang out, and some who happened in without even knowing there'd be live music. Bottom line was the room was abuzz—people arriving, finding tables, people milling by the bar. The wait staff tried to fill orders between acts, but they too were moving around during the acts. It was completely different from her fantasy, but the reality of learning her craft was satisfying too. She had to learn to ignore the distractions and get into the music.

When Elle signaled she was ready, the manager hopped up on the stage and succinctly introduced them, "Ladies and gentlemen, Astrid Finch, with Elle Flannery on guitar."

They had planned four songs, bookended by Beatles classics. As the crowd settled, she launched into _In my life_, and soon found performance gear. Next she sang one of Philippe's personal favorites, _Up on the roof_. It had been covered countless times, but she found that Philippe was right when he said it was simple and just connected with audiences. After the more "serious" acts, Astrid and Elle had agreed their goal that evening was just to engage the audience, to entertain them, and to have some fun doing it … something Astrid desperately needed.

Next she took hold of the rock ballad _I'll stand by you_, really trying to follow Philippe's advice and make it her own. At the end of the song, the crowd responded. She looked out into the crowd, thanking them, scanning the faces as Philippe had taught her to do … and that was when she saw him. He was at a corner table at the far end of the room. Her chest tightened. She turned away from the audience to collect herself and settle this new set of nerves. P_rofessional. _Philippe's voice rang in her ears. More than that, she thought of her misgivings about not trying harder to reach him that morning. She'd been given a second chance, a chance to rewrite what happened. And this time she would dig deeper. She walked over to Elle and whispered, "I know we planned something else, but do you mind if we switch it up and I sing something a cappella?" If she was put out, Elle didn't show it. She just nodded and went to stand at the side of the stage.

Astrid turned back to face the audience. And as the crowd settled again, she took the mic in her hand, closed her eyes, and began …

_I, I will be queen,_

_And you, you will be king …_


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thanks for reading the first chapter. I really appreciate your feedback. My planned two-part story has stretched to three, but the good news is that the final chapter is written, just needs a bit of polishing, and should be posted soon. I'll have complete credits for the lyrics used in the fic at the end of the third chapter. In the meantime, to the reviewer who asked—yes, it's _Heroes_ by David Bowie. The song was used in the show, and sung by Madeleine Mantock.

I hope you enjoy this installment and the one that follows.

* * *

_Yes, we can be heroes_

_just for one day_

Astrid opened her eyes and found herself back on stage, commanding the kind of attention she'd always dreamed of. People were listening. It was gratifying; she was pleased that her performance was moving. Yet the performance had been intended to reach only one person. And now, as she thanked the audience for their attention, and called Elle back to her side to share in the applause, she allowed her eyes to drift and meet John's. His expression was unreadable, but he joined the others in applauding her work.

She left the stage and made her way directly to his table, stopping only briefly to accept the acknowledgement of a few folks along the way. He stood at once, and pulled out a chair for her, "please join me?"

She used both hands to smooth the back of her dress as she took the seat he offered. "Seriously, are you stalking me? What are you doing here, John?" She willed her voice to sound light.

He was dressed as he had been earlier, minus the tie. He reached into his breast-pocket and retrieved one of the postcards; "featuring Astrid Finch" was clearly visible on one corner. As he did this, she could see he was wearing a gun holster underneath his jacket. A year ago, she would have been terrified, but given all that she'd seen and done, she was unfazed by the fact that he now carried a gun—sad, but unfazed. "I wanted to hear you sing," he said simply. "Let me get you a drink," he said as he signaled the waitress without waiting for her response. A moment later, the waitress was at their table. "Can I get a second glass for my friend?" He indicated the carafe of red wine on the table, "red okay with you?"

Before the waitress could say otherwise, Astrid showed him the back of her right hand—no stamp meant no booze. As she cocked her head to the side, a cascade of curls fell over her shoulder. "Really John. I'm underage." And then to the waitress, "I'll have my usual, Sarah. Thanks."

By now, the next act had taken the stage, an old-school jazz duo of sax and standing bass. She had plenty more that she wanted to say to him, but it would have to wait. She knew what it was like to be on stage and see people chatting, or texting, or both. She didn't want to be like that. She felt she owed it to the performers even if cool jazz wasn't her thing. So they listened in silence. From time to time, she stole a glance at John—his gaze fixed on the stage, his face unknowable in profile. Sarah delivered her sparkling water with lime, and they settled in for the duration of the set. It seemed like it went on a long time to Astrid. She couldn't honestly say whether it was quantifiably longer, or just felt that way. But by the end of it, Astrid was longing to be home. She knew that the longer set break would happen then, and she could get her things and head home.

It was partially post-performance fatigue setting in; it was partially that she was no longer sure what to say to John. There'd been no spark of recognition, no acknowledgement that he remembered her, no indication that her heartfelt rendition of _Heroes_ meant anything to him. She felt deflated by it all. None of what she hoped for had come to pass.

When the set finally ended, Astrid applauded the act as she would for any other. Even if the music wasn't her thing, they were clearly as dedicated as she was, and deserved respect. At this longer set break, the tables would turn over, as people who sat through the first acts left, and people who'd been at the bar found tables. An entirely different group of people would arrive to see the later performers.

Astrid stood, "thanks for the drink." She knew it was weak, but she couldn't quite harness the energy to try again—especially to try again, and flame out again. So she fled. She went to find Elle at the bar. Together, they collected their things from the back room, and made their way out to the corner.

Astrid waited until Elle hailed a cab, and then turned toward the subway to catch her train. She knew he didn't literally materialize beside her, but it was also true that he suddenly was there. "Holy crap, John. What the hell?"

"Can I see you home?" he asked.

"You're joking, right?"

"No … young woman … big city … dark streets …" he smiled. He _actually_ smiled.

"I do it all the time. No bodyguard necessary."

But she didn't object when he joined her on the train, or walked her to her door. She found the companionable silence between them oddly comforting. When they reached the point where the walkway to her house met the sidewalk, she stopped and turned to him, "Jedikiah sent you, didn't he? He sent you to find out what I know about Stephen and the others."

He didn't deny it, "Yes, but I got what I needed this morning at the café. Tonight, I just wanted to hear you sing. You have a beautiful voice, Astrid." Adding, as though to indicate their time together was over, "Goodnight." He stood waiting for her to enter the house.

She took a few steps toward the door. Then she turned around and called to him, "John?" She went to him. She caressed his face, and kissed him. She felt his arms embrace her as he deepened the kiss. Slowly they parted. She pulled back and searched his eyes.

"A simple thank you would have sufficed, but that was much nicer."

"Thanks a lot," she said in a voice that she hoped dripped with sarcasm. With that she went inside, and shut and locked the door. She leaned against it for a long time. The breakthrough she hoped for—longed for—eluded her. He was John, but not _her_ John. He had John's smile, his voice, his movements and physicality, but he wasn't John—not really. She wanted to cry, and scream, and laugh all at the same time. It was as though the universe was mocking her, by bringing this shadow image of what she really wanted.

* * *

Astrid could mark almost to the minute when John had walked back into her life. She could also pinpoint when the landscape shifted, and they resumed their friendship—albeit in a strange, unsettling way.

After the night of her performance, she didn't see him for a few days. At first she told herself—_good riddance_. He had only sought her out to probe her mind on Jedikiah's behalf anyway. He had used her, and if Jedikiah Price was involved the aims could only be bad. Jedikiah didn't seem to foster any other kind.

But then he showed up again one day, ordered a coffee to go, as though nothing had happened between them. Then he showed up again the next day, and the day after that. Before she realized that it had happened, John had become a regular—the same order at the same time everyday. Sometimes Astrid waited on him. Usually their interaction was framed by awkward silence, as she filled the order, and he paid, leaving a disproportionately large tip in the tip jar. Once or twice, he'd asked when she'd be performing again.

"I'm not sure. I'm starting to work on some new material," she told him.

"I'll look forward to it," was all he said in response, and then he was gone.

Then one day, she was in the kitchen helping Tony finish some sandwiches, when her father stuck his head into the kitchen and said, "Your friend's here."

"Which friend?" she asked, looking up from the sandwich she was carefully wrapping.

Her dad pointed to his watch, "10:45, large coffee to go."

"You mean John. So, get him his large coffee to go," with a degree of exasperation.

"That's just it, he took it "_for here_," her father intoned. "He's at table three, said he's hoping to see you."

"Really Dad," was all she said as she brushed past him on her way to the front of the café. She was frustrated and her dad momentarily bore the brunt of it. She really wished her father hadn't put her in this position. Why couldn't he have said he'd check to see if she was available? Or that she was too busy to chit chat with the customers, or anything to put him off. Still, her body betrayed her, as she felt butterflies of anticipation.

John stood as she approached his table, and gestured for her to join him.

"So, what does Jedikiah want to know now?" she asked him roughly as she sat down opposite him.

"Astrid," he started in a soft voice, "I _work_ for Jedikiah, but he doesn't _own_ me. The truth is," he turned his gaze out the window rather than meeting her eyes, "I just finished a challenging assignment, and Jed told me to take a few days off."

"It goes without saying that I shouldn't ask the nature of the assignment."

John went on as though he hadn't heard her. "I was hoping to spend some of it with you. What time do you get off work? Are you free?"

"I really can't today. I have my voice lesson this afternoon." He looked wounded, and even she felt her tone was harsh. All at once, she decided to take another one of those leaps of faith. "But I'm free tomorrow." Tomorrow might be the day that she found the spark that brought him back to being himself. "I can probably take off around 2:30 or 3:00. Will that work for you?" she asked.

"I'll be here."

* * *

After work, Astrid took the subway and then walked a few blocks to Philippe's practice studio. It was in a multi-story building that had many years ago been converted to small day studios for artists and soundproofed practice studios for musicians. Astrid took the stairs to his third floor studio; let herself in without knocking as she always did; deposited her bag and jacket on the chaise; then she hopped up on the tall stool beside the piano.

Philippe was at the piano, fingering a tune with one hand. "I have a new playlist for us to work on," she told him without preamble.

"_Hello Philippe. How are you_?" he replied sarcastically.

"Right. Sorry. Hello Philippe. How are you?"

"Thanks for asking Astrid. I'm fine. How are you? Other than excited about a new playlist."

"I'm fine, maybe better than fine—I don't know."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense. Let's see the playlist."

She took out her phone, and showed him the list of songs she'd compiled. She chose more than she knew they needed, because Philippe invariably rejected some.

He commented as he looked through the songs she'd selected. "This is out of your range … you're too young, and don't have the gravitas for this yet … cliché … this one is everywhere these days, so no … this one's good … so's this one—I love this song. You mining for your folks' old music collection for these?" he asked absently. He looked up at her, "Seriously Astrid. You know this one is country and western, right?"

"You told me to expand."

"That's true..."

"Besides I thought I could do it like this …

_I know that I shouldn't, but I want you so bad_

_I know it couldn't be, but I want what we had_

_I know our love is gone, and I can't bring it back_

_Still I long for your kiss_

_Still I long for your kiss._"

"Yeah, that's nice. I like it. What the hell?" he said returning his attention to the playlist. "This one's kind of country too." She took her phone back from him, and in a few clicks she was able to show him a rock version of the same song on YouTube. He watched in silence, then looked over his glasses at her and said, "It's like a completely different song, yet the same. It perfectly illustrates what I mean when I say to make it your own."

When he was done perusing the short list, humming the tunes, adding piano when he could, he looked at her seriously and said, "I'm sensing a theme here. Does it have anything to do with _the_ guy?"

"In a way … I know I'm young and I don't have the 'gravitas' to do every song, but I've seen a lot too, Philippe. You told me to pour myself into the music, and I can do that with these songs."

He sighed. He'd worked with enough aspiring singers to know when to give in and let them try something, "Okay. We'll work on these."

"One other thing," she began.

He sighed theatrically and asked, "Yesssss?" drawing out the word.

"I want to perform them at the open mic night next month."

"Wait, that's like what? Three weeks away?"

"Yeah, give or take a day."

"You're joking, right? I don't even have to ask, because I _know_ you are. Assuming I can find the music, when will you and Elle have time to practice?"

"I've already asked her if she could work with me on the two guitar-centric pieces."

"Assuming you perform these four, what about the other two?"

"I was hoping," she let her eyes lead him to the corner of the practice room where Philippe kept his little used electric keyboard.

"Astrid, honey, you cannot be serious. You know how I feel about that thing."

"But you still own it, and know how to play it. Pleeeease. It's the perfect compromise."

"I haven't performed anywhere for ages."

"One, it's like riding a bicycle. And two, it's open mic night, not Carnegie Hall, remember?"

He sighed deeply, eyes still fixed on the dreaded keyboard. He was already relenting. "I hope he's worth it, Astrid."

"It's not for him, Philippe. It's for me. It's how I feel when I'm around him … conflicted, longing, sad, hopeful … You told me to sing with my heart, and this is what's in my heart right now."

"Then we'd better get to work."

* * *

Astrid tried not to blow it out of proportion. It was no big deal, just an afternoon out with a "friend." She'd anticipated the questions her father would have when she asked to take off early. She hated to lie to him, but she could hardly tell him the truth. So she stuck as close as she could to elements of the truth—John was one of Stephen's friends (she knew her father disapproved of striking up serious friendships with customers from the café). He recently started working for Stephen's uncle, doing some kind of private security—high-level and confidential. She hadn't seen him for quite some time before he happened in by chance. She told her father this as they set up the café that morning. If ever things reached the point of her formally introducing John to her parents, she would have to prep him, but that was a worry for another time, if ever. For now, it was enough that her father seemed happy that she was reconnecting with friends; he'd remarked on Stephen's absence from Astrid's life, and encouraged her to balance her work and singing, with some fun.

She was grateful that John skipped his usual morning coffee. She'd been worried that he might show up at 10:45 and occupy a table until she was done with work, hours later. Instead, at 2:30 with the lunch rush over, Astrid headed to the break room to freshen up, change her top, and unbraid her hair.

When she emerged, he was there, sitting at the table nearest the door. They were a study in contrast. He was "casually" dressed—casual for him these days—in gray slacks, with a black jacket over a black tee shirt. She wore jeans tucked into ankle boots, a v-neck tee shirt, topped with one of her favorite scarves looped around her neck and a red cropped jacket.

It was surreal in a way—she was going on a date with John—but not John. Astrid glanced at her father, and he winked to indicate his approval. John opened the door for her; then followed her into the bright afternoon sunshine.

"What would you like to do this afternoon?" he asked her.

"I thought we could get some gelato. There's a great place by the park. Then maybe we could take in the views from the ferry, unless you had something else in mind. I mean, you probably don't get many days like this."

He said simply, "I'm happy to do whatever you'd like."

So they made their way to her favorite gelato place, and afterward found a bench in the park to sit and enjoy the sun before catching the ferry. They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Astrid worked up the nerve to ask, "So, does Jedikiah know you're seeing me?"

He deflected, "Is that what we're doing? Seeing each other?"

"You know what I mean," her voice was serious. She hated to ruin their afternoon, but she needed to know how things stood. "I'm sorry John, but there are things I need to know … things I need to understand about you."

"Okay. To answer your question, I haven't told Jedikiah about seeing you, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know. What else do you want to know?"

"I know you carry a gun, and I know you have your powers back. What do you do for Jedikiah? How did you get your powers back?"

"You know I can't tell you that, but I want you to know that I would never intentionally hurt an innocent person, Astrid. Look, I don't know what Jed did to you …"

She interrupted him, "it's not what he did to me, John. It's what he's done to _you_."

"He gave me my powers back, Astrid. He didn't know what the side effects would be."

"And you believe him?"

His response was telling and evasive, "I can't remember a time when Jed wasn't there for me, Astrid. And I don't want him to come between us—maybe we can just agree to not let that happen."

"I don't know, John. I want to, but …"

He took her hand, "I understand that you don't trust Jed, but you can trust me, Astrid."

"I want to," she repeated.

"That will have to be enough for now. Let's go catch the ferry." He brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. The memory of his gesture broke her heart, and almost moved her to tears.

They rode the ferry out to Staten Island and back, just to enjoy the views and their time together. It was perfect. Though they spoke relatively little, Astrid found the silences were not awkward at all; they were easy and comfortable, like she imagined it would be with _her_ John. When their afternoon was over, John saw her home, leaving her on her doorstep with a kiss on the cheek, and questions in her heart.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks for reading, and a special note of thanks to those who reviewed and/or messaged me. I really appreciate your feedback. Here is the final installment. I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Over the course of the next few weeks, Astrid balanced working in the café, practicing her new material with Philippe and Elle, and spending time with John. They had slipped into a pattern of seeing one another when they could—when Astrid wasn't working or practicing, or John wasn't off doing some assignment for Jedikiah. Astrid noticed the way John would distance himself just before he left for an assignment. Sometimes they were of short duration; sometimes, he was gone longer. If she was honest, she would admit to feeling anxious about the nature of these assignments, and John's safety; at the same time, she knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. Because her life was full, she didn't sit around waiting for his return, but she was invariably relieved to see him when he turned up alive and well. He'd just return one day to the café, or be waiting outside Philippe's building when she left after a lesson. Sometimes he wore an expression that she knew better than to ask about—haunted … vacant … distant. Each time, she would gradually draw him back and dispel his dark mood.

It was awkward. She couldn't describe it any other way. There was that whole part of his life that was off-limits to her; and then there was a part of herself that she didn't want to share with him—the part that was waiting for him to remember her. So they found neutral things to do together, things that they could share—movies, food, and music—lots of music—while they worked around those things they couldn't. In a way, it was like it was with her John, after the world didn't end, but before Jedikiah took away John's life, as he knew it. They too had been taking those first tenuous steps toward a deeper relationship, but theirs was built on the foundation of all that had come before. Now that foundation had been cruelly wiped away. Perhaps this was normal. Perhaps this was how other couples began—with hopes and fears, discoveries and revelations, unknowns that became known. Astrid was no longer sure she knew what normal looked or felt like.

A few days before her much anticipated open mic night, they had gone to the free night at the museum. John told her that he could take her to the museum anytime, but Astrid insisted on going on the night that admission was free. "It's just a different crowd," she explained, "a different vibe." So, together they discovered that John gravitated to the large, deceptively repetitious canvasses of Mark Rothko; and that Astrid could spend an entire hour in a room full of Matisse, if you let her.

Afterward they headed to a _different_ noodle shop. It was weird the way he still ordered the same dishes. She watched as he finished off a dumpling and washed it down with a swig of beer. "Go ahead and ask," he said seemingly out of the blue.

Astrid's eyes flashed, "John, you promised."

He held up his hands, "I didn't, I swear. You get this … I don't know … pensive look … and I just know you're biting back a question. So, just go ahead and ask me."

"Okay. Don't you _want_ to remember? Don't you _want_ to know more about who you were before?"

"Of course … I do ... I did. It was so disorienting at first, and I did tons of research on traumatic amnesia … read case studies. Jed gave me access to whatever I needed. Everything points to the same thing—the brain will heal in its own way and its own time. In the meantime, with Jed's help, I'm building a new life."

She couldn't let that pass, "Doing what _Jed_ wants you to do."

"Doing something I'm good at … better than good actually." Seeing her expression, he regretted being so combative. He went on in more gentle tone, "Astrid, I've had months to wrap my head around it. You've only had a few weeks—I get that. But, what kind of life would that be for me—forever looking back, and wondering or hoping? What's to be gained by that?"

_You_, she wanted to scream, _you're what's to be gained_, but she held back. Usually they embraced the easy silences of just being together, but now the silence that fell between them was strained, as though they breached a boundary that was better left intact.

Leaving the restaurant, he pulled her into an alley, and employed the expediency of teleportation to take her home. They arrived in the narrow lane that ran alongside her house, without being seen, he hoped. He gave her a moment to find her equilibrium before releasing her. "Astrid," he launched as though making a preemptive strike, "I have another assignment. I have to leave."

"Really John, so soon? You've only been back from the last one for a couple of days," she hated sounding whiny, so she added in what she hoped was a different tone, "when?"

"Today," he said softly, "now."

She fumbled through the outside pocket of her bag, and brought out a postcard announcing the upcoming open mic night. Across the corner, she'd written _'featuring Astrid Finch performing new material.'_ "Promise me you'll be there," she said firmly in the face of the fear that now crept into her heart.

"I wish I could, but I can't promise anything," he said from behind sad eyes. "I know what you want, Astrid, but I'm not the hero in that song."

"John, I …"

"I don't need to read your mind to know. I could hear it in your voice that night, when you sang to me, it was really to _him_, and afterward when you kissed me. I can see it on your face when we're together … even now. You're looking for the key to fix me, to bring _him_ back. But I'm not broken, Astrid. This is who I am now. And this John Young, the one who's here with you now, is in love with you."

Then he kissed her. She could feel the strength of his arms as he held her, and the hard outline of the gun he invariably carried. He held her so tightly that she could feel the way his muscles moved and his breath expand and contract his torso where his shirt met the thin fabric of her blouse. Then he released her and teleported away without a word of goodbye.

* * *

That night, sleep eluded Astrid, as she turned what happened over and over again in her mind. She thought about the feel and the taste of John's lips, the way he held her, and most of all, the words he spoke. It was as though she hoped through repetition to capture it and make sense of it. She found it impossible to name her emotions. So for now, it was enough to replay it, to examine it from every angle.

When she heard the songbirds heralding sunrise, she gave up trying to sleep, and decided to join them. She dressed, sent her father a text to let him know she would be at the café at 7:00, and then headed to the practice studio. When he realized that Astrid was both committed and trustworthy, Philippe had given her a set of keys to the practice studio, so that she could practice when he wasn't using it. She'd only occasionally done so, mostly when she had an upcoming performance, but she headed there now, not so much to practice, as to pour out her emotions in the only way she could think to do.

At first she sat at the piano, playing the opening chords. She could never do it justice the way Philippe did. "Screw it," she said aloud as she banged her hand down hard on the keys. She stood, closed her eyes and began,

_I was just waiting for your phone call_

_When they came along to say_

_That a rose done chased you clear away_

_You had said I was gamine_

_But we didn't mean the same thing I think_

_Broke my choux pastry heart_

_Guess life's, no picture post card_

_One for sorrow_

_Two for joy_

_Sometimes you win or sometimes you lose_

_I don't wanna lose you_

_Don't even own you_

_I just wanna stay right here_

_Until never dawns yeah …_

* * *

And so she filled the days until her performance by working at the café, followed by rehearsal. Before heading home at the end of the day, she combed through consignment and vintage stores looking for something unique to wear on stage that night. She could have worn any number of things already hanging in her closet, but she had an image in mind, and too, it provided a useful distraction.

Still no amount of activity could drive away the images and memories from her mind—some more distant, but mostly recent—either way, he was never very far from her consciousness. She was accustomed to knowing herself, knowing what she wanted, and understanding her feelings. But now, he had upended that. He had undone her usual sense of self, and left her questioning once again. The most challenging times were those quiet moments, after the day's activities, but before she could quiet her mind and sleep. In those moments, she would take out her notebook and write what she hoped would one day become her own original musical voice—themes of love lost, and then found again, themes of betrayal and redemption, themes that hinted at darkness punctured by light.

* * *

Jedikiah was waiting for her one day as she left Philippe's studio. She was walking to the subway when he fell into step beside her. "Hello Astrid."

It brought her up short, but she quickly regained her composure and replied, "Jedikiah. I knew you'd turn up one day. What do you want?"

"Just a word."

"About what?" she asked as she continued to walk.

"About the only thing we still have in common, Astrid—John."

"What about him?"

"I need him, Astrid."

"So?" she responded peevishly.

"Trust me Astrid, the world is still a dangerous place," he said, his voice rising and drawing stares from passersby. "Look, can we go somewhere and talk?"

It was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, but she knew he would not leave her alone until he said what he'd come to say. So she led him to a park bench, and they sat.

"Do you have any idea what Stephen and his merry band of miscreants are up to these days? No, of course you don't. Did you know that the Founder isn't dead, and that he still has followers who are plotting his return?" Now he had her full attention. She knew too well the danger the Founder posed. "I need John to help me fight this fight," he told her.

"And you seem to have him, so what do you want from me?"

"I need him, Astrid," he told her urgently. And then in a more calm voice he asked, "What do you think makes a good soldier?"

"You want to have a philosophical discussion, Jedikiah?" she replied sarcastically.

"Do you think it's the man who has nothing to live for, so he'll willingly put himself in harms way with no regard for his own safety? Or do you think it's the man who has everything to live for, who fights to protect the ones he loves, and return to them if he can?"

She sighed, "So, John is a soldier in this war of yours."

"This war of _ours_, Astrid. We're alike—you and I. We're human. You have as much of a stake in this as I do."

"What to you want from me, Jedikiah?" She just wanted to be away from him. Her feelings were complicated enough without his unwelcome intrusion.

"I know it's hard for you to understand, but I love John as if he were my own."

"You have a funny way of showing it. You're using him … taking advantage of his loyalty … you gave him no choice … you took away his memory … his past …"

"I took away his vulnerability," Jedikiah said forcefully, his voice rising, again drawing looks from people waking by.

"Maybe, if you had trusted him … given his a choice … a _real_ choice, he would have enlisted in your war anyway. Did you ever think of that?"

He calmed himself again, and Astrid was surprised to see tears forming in his eyes, "See, I knew you wouldn't understand. The thing is, I really do want him to be happy, and you seem to make him happy. So, I don't mind him seeing you, as long as he continues to be there when I need him. You see—I came to give you my blessing."

"I don't need your blessing."

"Maybe not, but you have it all the same." With that, he disappeared into the stream of people enjoying a walk in the park on a sunny afternoon.

* * *

The day of her performance proved to be a busy one. First, she saw her parents off as they left for a long-planned reunion of a group of old friends on Cape Cod. Then she opened the café, and worked all day, practically without taking a break. She wished she could say that she was too busy to look up eagerly each time the door opened, but it would have been a lie. The truth was that she kept hoping that at any minute John would walk in, but she was disappointed. _Channel it into the music_, she told herself.

They closed up a little early, allowing her time to go home, shower and change, and then get to the club. Her shopping trips had paid off in multiple ways, but for now she focused on the pieces she would wear that night—a blue silk dress that felt delicious against her skin, and a vintage necklace with matching bracelet. While she didn't consider herself to be vain, Astrid knew when she looked good, and she was pleased with her efforts. She put on a light coat, grabbed her bag and headed to the club. All the way there on the subway, her mind was mixture of lyrics, phrasing, and rehearsal notes. She thought that her fellow passengers might even be able to feel the nervous, pre-performance energy radiating off of her.

When she arrived at the club, she found Philippe and Elle were already there. Both had stashed their instruments just off stage. Elle was at their favorite table in front of the stage. Astrid joined her, and a minute later Philippe sat down and announced, "We're the last act before the set break," clearly excited. Astrid had never seen him like this before, exuding pre-performance energy of his own, rather than on behalf of one of his students. It was fun to see him in a different light.

While the first act was setting up, they ordered drinks and settled in. Astrid couldn't resist turning around to scan the other tables and the bar area, as best she could. "Astrid, honey, would you please relax? You're making me nervous, and I'm nervous enough already having to play that thing in front of others."

There was no sign of John by the time the first act started. Ordinarily, Astrid would be paying close attention to the other acts, critiquing the performances—not looking to find fault—just to learn from the strengths and weaknesses of other aspiring artists. But tonight was different. She was too polite to search the room with her eyes during the sets, but between acts she couldn't help, glancing over her shoulder towards the door. The first two acts she decided were either forgettable or not memorable enough to break through her mental haze. But the final act before her was a jazz guitarist. He was really mellow, but really good. Astrid wondered whether Elle would find it intimidating, or inspiring. Either way, they were up next.

The three of them took the stage—Philippe set up his keyboard, Elle tuned up, and Astrid adjusted the mic, and ran through her exercises to harness her breathing, and focus her energy. Whether they planned it, or it was something that good accompanists just knew, both Philippe and Elle were dressed in black, making Astrid's royal blue dress even more striking. When Elle signaled they were ready, the club owner introduced them, "Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming back Astrid Finch, featuring Elle Flannery on guitar and Philippe Lucien on keyboards." Elle stood to one side of the stage as Astrid took the mic and began the set accompanied by Philippe.

Astrid closed her eyes just for an instant to find her focus. There were the usual distractions—people settling in at tables … wait staff delivering drinks … someone texting. Philippe played the opening chords, and Astrid began …

_Long ago and oh so far away_

_I fell in love with you before the second show_

_Your guitar, it sounds so sweet and clear_

_But you're not really here_

_It's just the radio … _

_Loneliness is such a sad affair_

_And I can hardly wait to sleep with you again_

_What to say to make you come again_

_Come back to me again_

_And play your sad guitar_

It was straightforward and direct. It was moving, yet accessible, and now she felt she had the audience's attention. She moved into the more challenging and haunting _Choux Pastry Heart_. Then Elle joined her and Philippe took a break, as they performed _Still I Long for Your Kiss_. Even though she loved the audience's positive response, she wasn't singing to anyone, or for anyone. She found herself completely immersed in the music and in her performance of it.

Astrid thanked the audience, and then they switched gears for their final song, with Elle on guitar and Philippe singing counterpoint vocals, Astrid launched,

_The world was on fire and no one could save me but you._

_It's strange what desire will make foolish people do._

_I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you._

_And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you … _

She sang it with tempo and urgency, feeling the emotion in a new way from the way it felt in rehearsal.

… _I want to fall in love (This world is only gonna break your heart)_

_No, I want to fall in love (This world is only gonna break your heart)_

_With you._

When they finished, she saw that the performance hit the mark with the audience. Astrid thanked them and then invited Philippe and Elle to her side to share in the applause. It was everything Astrid imagined performing could be—feeding off of the energy of an audience, yet personal, and intimate in a way.

She was still on a post-performance high as she waited for Philippe and Elle, while they put their instruments away. Their table was long gone, so they headed to the bar, which was crowded, as it always was at the long set break. She was trying to edge her way between two people to order a sparkling water, when she saw him at the far end of the bar. She caught his eye, and let her face invite him to join her. He made his way to where she stood close by Philippe and Elle.

He was wearing a black suit with a gray tee shirt. He looked handsome and polished, and yet, she recognized the look in his eyes. The look she'd come to expect when he returned. He took her arm and bent to kiss her cheek. "You made it," was all she could think to say—and all that seemed appropriate to say in front of others.

"I told you I'd be here if I could."

"I know. It's just after everything that happened, I wasn't sure you'd make it," she added.

"You were great," he said, genuine admiration showed on his face.

"Yes, she was, wasn't she? Or is it too self-serving of me to say so?" Philippe chimed in, adding a faux cough, "Ahem."

"Of course, sorry—introductions," she had momentarily forgotten that they'd never been introduced, or indeed that Philippe and Elle were still standing next to them. "John, this is my voice coach Philippe, and Elle … well, you've heard her perform before."

"Nice to meet you both," he said. "Can I get a round of drinks?"

Philippe quickly declined, "Actually, Elle and I were planning to finish packing our gear during the set break and share a cab. Rain-check perhaps?"

"Of course." Then he turned to Astrid, "What can I get you?" He would seem reserved and polite to the others, but Astrid read it differently, though she could only guess at the demons he brought with him when he returned.

"Nothing actually. I was hoping you'd see me home." She went to retrieve her coat from the back room, and stopped to thank Philippe and Elle again.

Elle was the soul of discretion, but Philippe couldn't help but say, "It all makes sense to me now, sweetie."

* * *

When she returned to the front of the club, John was waiting for her by the door. His eyes met hers, and while his lips could manage a smile for her benefit, his eyes didn't follow suit. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, but as she approached, he put his hand on the small of her back and guided her through the door, and out into the cool, fresh air of night.

"Do you mind if we go the old fashioned way?" she asked, looking toward the subway entrance.

They rode the subway together in a tense silence, though he held her hand as he walked her to her door.

"Would you like to come in for a drink, or a cup of tea?" she asked when they arrived at her doorstep.

"I wouldn't want to disturb your parents," his voice seemed distant, whether from what had happened between them the last time he saw her home, or from his recent assignment, she couldn't say.

"They're out of town for a few days." She was already putting the key in the lock, "Please … besides, I have something for you," she added, clearly unwilling to take no for an answer. So he silently followed her inside. She noticed how he hesitated just inside the door. "Living room's this way," she took him by the arm to their tidy, yet lived-in front room. "Make yourself at home. I'll be right back." And with that, she headed upstairs.

When she returned, he was still standing exactly where she'd left him. He was so proper, so formal in a way. But he was still John … he was still strong, but shy and sweet, and confident, without being overbearing. He was still John in so many ways, and not just a shadow memory of John—the essence of him. Perhaps no drug, or treatment, or whatever, that Jedikiah could devise would ever take that away from him.

She approached him, holding something behind her back. She brought it out and showed him a black leather jacket. It was broken in, but not worn. "I bought it at a consignment store, so it didn't cost my entire paycheck," she told him, "but I thought of you when I saw it … try it on," she urged.

He slipped off his suit jacket, folding it neatly, and placing it across the arm of a chair. Then he took off his holster and gun, and carefully laid them next to his jacket. Taking the leather jacket from Astrid, he put it on. She looked pleased until he asked, "This is something I would have worn before, isn't it?"

Astrid threaded her arms under the jacket and around his waist, so that she was practically wearing the jacket with him. "Maybe, but I was thinking that you could make it your own—the way I do with my music—and the way that I hope we can with this," she searched for the right word, but found it elusive. She settled for, "relationship we're building together. I'm falling in love with you, John—not the memory of you—_you_—just you." She released his waist, took his face in her hands and kissed him with a newfound intimacy that spoke of all the hopes and fears that fledging love inspires.

Then she looked into his eyes, and finding them still wary, still haunted, she asked, "Was it bad this time, John?"

He didn't have to ask which "it" she meant. He replied, "You know I can't tell you about my assignments, Astrid."

"I'm not asking about the assignment. I'm asking about you."

"They're always bad in a way," he told her in a sad voice.

She led him to the couch, and they sat down together. John wrapped his arms around her, and she relaxed into his embrace. And when they were settled, she said, "You're not alone anymore, John. You have me now. Tell me."

* * *

AN: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Here are the credits for the lyrics used in the fic:

_Heroes_ … David Bowie

_Still I Long for Your Kiss_ … Lucinda Williams

_Choux Pastry Heart_ … Corinne Bailey Rae

_Superstar_ … Bonnie Bramlett, Delaney Bramlett, and Leon Russell

_Wicked Game_ … Chris Isaak


End file.
